THREE PICTURES.

UPON the threshold of his guarded home Stands Love the child. A thousand roses bloom above his head With rain of dewy petals white and red; All fair and joyous things themselves array To deck and soften for dear Love the way. He stands where often he has stood before; But now his face is pale, his eyes all wild, A strange and boding tread has caught his ear, An awful, hovering shape sweeps into view, And all his soul is rent with wrath and fear— What can Love do?

Poor Love! brave Love! he nerves his feeble arm, He grasps his bow; The dreadful guest has seized the rainbow wings. In vain Love strives with tears and shudderings, In vain he lifts appealing eyes of prayer; There is no pity or relenting there. No power has Love to deprecate or charm, Vain are his puny wiles against this foe; The roses wither in the icy breath Which eddies the defenceless portals through, And, brushing Love aside, in passes Death— What can Love do?